


In Love And War

by Carbynn



Series: Royed Week 2018 [7]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, descriptions of violence, flashbacks kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 18:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15802053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carbynn/pseuds/Carbynn
Summary: Sometimes, it’s difficult to look at Ed without seeing war.





	In Love And War

**Author's Note:**

> Seven fics in seven days due to my lack of planning and FINALLY I AM FREE.
> 
> Day 7: Domesticism/War

Sometimes, it’s difficult to look at Ed without seeing war.

He’s curled up with a book, legs stretched down the length of the sofa to the point where his mismatched ankles cross on Roy’s lap. There’s a low fire burning in the fireplace, but Ed’s mostly buried under a blanket. Even after the years he’s spent here, he’s still not used to the chill of Central winters.

He runs hot, rampant and unrelenting, scorching everything he touches like a fire burning through underbrush, or through woods, or through a city street packed with screaming Ishvalans. In the flickering light thrown by fireplace, Ed’s eyes glow orange like those flames.

The yellow shine of his loose hair spreading over his shoulder is the shimmer of sun-baked desert sand spreading out in every direction, sand that coated everything from Roy’s supplies to his clothing to his tongue. Now and then, he can taste it, that mineral grit that crunches between his teeth and clogs his throat when he tries to draw a breath. Sometimes, he can taste the smoke of the ash mixed in.

Even the warm golden glow of his skin is no escape. Sun-kissed, even in winter, Ed personifies the heat of the desert sun, and the pads of Roy’s fingers burn as he skims them gently over the delicate sweep of the flesh-and-bone ankle on his lap.

The glint of the automail, cold and silver, is almost beyond contemplation. It’s the flash of a gun, the glittering whir of bullets reflecting the sun as they sail past his ears before he snaps. It’s the unfeeling, antiseptic glare of trays stacked with surgical instruments in medical tents packed with begging, screaming wounded and the silent shells of those who have managed to escape the hell of war in the worst possible way. It’s the shine of the medals that were pinned to his uniform, medals he neither deserved nor wanted, medals that were bought and paid for with human lives and the sacrifice of his own soul.

Ed stretches, shifting his feet on Roy’s lap when he moves. “You look like you’re thinking about something.”

“Just you,” Roy says, and he isn’t technically lying. “As always, you consume my entire capacity for thought.”

“Sap.” Ed stays still for a moment before closing his book and swinging his legs around, shifting until he’s sitting next to Roy and leaning into him rather than using him as a footrest. “Liar.”

Roy curses the day that Edward became this perceptive. “You’re the most important thing I’m thinking about,” he amends, which is also the truth.

“Uh huh.” Ed, predictably, is unconvinced. He wedges an arm between Roy’s back and the sofa to get it around his waist and manages to pull himself even closer. “You’re doing that thing where you look at me like you’re seein’ me somewhere else.” Ed won’t say it, but he knows exactly where ‘somewhere else’ is.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Ed’s frowning and shifting again so he can look Roy in the eyes, but Roy almost can’t meet them. “It’s not your fault, okay?”

Roy wonders what’s wrong with him, that he can’t separate out the worst thing he’s done from the best thing he has. Ed isn’t war. He isn’t sand, and he isn’t ash, and he isn’t fire or death or the things that herald it. He’s flesh and blood. He’s love and comfort, the tether that secures Roy to the ground and locks him here.

He reaches around Ed and wraps his arms around him, drawing him impossibly close, and buries his face in his neck. “I love you,” he whispers.

“I love you too.” Ed presses a cheek against the top of his head and holds him back, warm now rather than hot, sunlight instead of fire.

Ed stays there until Roy is calm, soothed by the familiar crush of his arms and the scent of his skin. He wishes he had the capacity to still be ashamed of this, wishes he could be ashamed of how often Ed has to step into this role, but this is an old dance. Ed has had years to back out of this, but he’s steadfast and present, even after all this time.

“Why don’t we make some tea or something?” Ed asks, once most of the tension has fled from Roy’s shoulders. “I think we still got some of those crunchy almond things that you like to dunk in it.”

Roy has to clear his throat before he can find the words to answer. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

Ed laces his fingers through Roy’s and rises to his feet, urging Roy up off of the couch with him as the blanket slips from his shoulders and lands in a heap on the floor where it’ll stay until Roy comes back through later. “C’mon then. I’ll put the kettle on.”

Probably, Ishval will haunt Roy for the rest of his life.

If he’s lucky, so will Ed.


End file.
